


your heart inked on my skin

by queer_esque



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt Enjolras, M/M, Protests, Tattoos, paintings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:43:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queer_esque/pseuds/queer_esque
Summary: Grantaire always thought Enjolras hated tattoos, but after a protest goes wrong he finds out that's not quite true.





	your heart inked on my skin

Enjolras doesn’t really like tattoos. That much has always been clear to Grantaire.

Grantaire himself has several, all over his arms and torso. He’s not the only one: almost all of the Amis have at least one or plan on getting one, but it’s always clear from the face that Enjolras pulls when they proudly show off their ink that he doesn’t like them.

Which is a pity, Grantaire thinks as he rubs at his arm through his sleeve, because it’s just one more point against him. But it doesn’t matter anyway: Grantaire never stood a chance.

So he just continues to pine from a distance and keeps attending meetings, arguing with Enjolras and taking all that he can get.

In June Enjolras is hurt during a protest.

It happens fast: one moment Enjolras is screaming something at someone, all righteous anger and blazing fury, the next he is doubled over and wheezing. He makes a choking sound and Grantaire realizes in horror that the man Enjolras was yelling at has kicked him in the stomach.

Enjolras seems incapable of keeping himself upright at this point, his eyes rolling back into his head in pain, and there are people all around. He might get trampled, so Grantaire quickly fights his way over to him from his observer place a little outside the protest. None of his friends seem to be in sight and there are so many people that yelling would be futile. At least the man who kicked Enjolras is nowhere in sight.

Grantaire isn’t even sure Enjolras realizes it’s him when he grabs him and pulls him through the crowd, but then Enjolras clutches his shirt and whispers, “R.”

“I’m here,” Grantaire responds, a little panicked. “Christ, Enjolras.”

It’s not the first time Enjolras has been hurt in a protest, but usually, he is conscious enough to still command around all his friends on what they should do with him. Not today, apparently: today Enjolras is an alarming shade of white and is hanging off of Grantaire like a sack of potatoes.

“My place is just a couple stops away,” Grantaire says as they stumble further away from the protest. None of their friends are coming after them, which means they haven’t seen Enjolras go down. He’ll text them later. “Maybe I should just take you to the hospital instead,” he adds when Enjolras wheezes again, coughing.

“No,” Enjolras whispers. “I’ll be fine.”

Given the way Enjolras looks, he isn’t, but Grantaire takes his word for it, given that he really doesn’t know how to deal with hospital staff, especially since he has no idea about Enjolras’ insurance. So instead, Grantaire decides to take him to his apartment.

It takes a substantial amount of time to do that: by the time they reach his place, Enjolras is still wheezing and pale, but he looks a lot better.

Because he doesn’t know what else to do, he puts Enjolras in his bed. Even though his weirdo roommate is not home right now (thank God), he doesn’t want to risk putting Enjolras on the couch. Then he makes some tea for lack of any real medication or anything to offer Enjolras.

Enjolras sits up when Grantaire enters the room again and he can’t shake the feeling of how right he looks in his sheets, in the messiness of his room amidst paints and unfinished paintings. Under different circumstances, Grantaire would have stood in the doorway for a while, just admiring the man currently sprawled out on his bed.

But it’s not different circumstances, so Grantaire comes forward with the tea.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says and smiles. His color looks a lot better.

“Let me check on how your stomach looks,” Grantaire says, then curses himself for the phrasing. Still, he pulls the covers he haphazardly threw over Enjolras off, carefully unzips Enjolras’ red jacket and pulls up the black shirt he has on underneath.

Although it’s pretty clear where the boot hit Enjolras, it doesn’t look serious to Grantaire. Granted, he has zero experience, but it doesn’t look like an internal organ has been damaged or whatever could have happened.

“It looks okay,” he informs Enjolras, and Enjolras nods and shifts slightly with a pained groan. Grantaire, who really has shown immense strength in not drooling over Enjolras’ stomach or hyperventilating over how close he is to Enjolras’ crotch, decides he’s done tempting fate and moves to pull the shirt down again. Then something catches his eye on Enjolras’ hipbone. It seems that moving has caused Enjolras’ pants to slip down a little, revealing a red flag.

Enjolras has a tattoo.

What the hell.

It’s tiny, so tiny Grantaire almost didn’t see it, but it’s there nonetheless. A tiny red flag waving in the wind.

And, Grantaire’s breath catches, he recognizes that flag.

A couple of months back, Grantaire managed to get a painting into a gallery – a minor one, but he got paid anyway, which was great. The painting was of a protest that Les Amis organized, painted in the style of the famous Liberty Leading the People painting by Eugène Delacroix. Enjolras was upfront in the painting, blazing with the fury of a god, waving a red flag. Grantaire had spent hours working on it.

And now Enjolras had inked the red flag he had painted on his body forever.

Grantaire feels the overwhelming urge to shake Enjolras out of the half-slumber he’s in and demand answers, but instead, he gets off the bed. “Rest,” he tells the half-conscious Enjolras. “There’s tea on the bedside table if you want it.”

 

Enjolras wakes up after a couple of hours. It feels like an eternity to Grantaire.

He tries his hardest to work on some of his paintings, or at least sketch something, but instead, he seems to be drawing the flag on Enjolras’ hip over and over again. He’s obsessed and he can’t stop.

“R?” he hears then and he looks over at the bed to see Enjolras half-sitting up, propped up against the headboard. His curls are a mess and Grantaire can almost pretend that it’s because of him that Enjolras looks wrecked in his bed. He can predict that he’ll paint this scene in the near future.

“Hey,” he says instead, walking over to sit on the side of the bed. “How are you?”

“Much better,” Enjolras answers. He smiles a tired smile and sits up properly. “Was I out for long?”

“No,” Grantaire says, even though he has no idea. “A couple of hours, maybe.”

Enjolras nods at this and throws the covers off. His clothes are wrinkled and Grantaire realizes that he’s still wearing his jeans. That couldn’t have been comfortable.

Neither of them says anything, Grantaire because he’s debating with himself if he should. Should he ask about the tattoo?

“Do you have something to drink?” Enjolras asks finally.

Grantaire nods, eyeing the cold tea and then moves to get up to get that drink, but then he sits back down, turning to look at Enjolras. He looks wide-eyed and tired, but his cheeks have a rosy sort of flush that looks healthy.

“Why did you never tell me about your tattoo?” he asks.

Enjolras blinks and, seemingly reflexive, touches his hip over where the tattoo is. It’s covered by his shirt now.

He takes a second to answer, not meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he finally admits.

“I thought you hated tattoos,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras looks surprised. “No! I never hated them. I just – I never knew how people chose them. How do you choose what will be on your body forever? And some of them are so meaningless.”

Grantaire considers this. Not all of his tattoos have meaning – he just chose them because he thought they were beautiful.

“But then – your painting, well. I couldn’t not get it.”

“But why?” Grantaire presses on because he has to know this, he has to understand this.

Enjolras laughs, a rough sound. “It reminds me of Les Amis, of the causes I fight for, I give my life for, and to continue to do so. And-” He clears his throat and breaks eye contact with Grantaire. “And it reminds me of you.”

“That can’t be a good thing, Apollo.”

Enjolras is quiet when he says, “It’s the best thing.”

Grantaire is reeling. His mind is spinning around and around in circles, coming to no conclusion. Could it be?

Enjolras shifts and then pulls his jacket and shirt up. There is that red flag, waving on his hip. Enjolras is looking at Grantaire.

Grantaire, in a gesture of grand bravery that deserves a poem, leans forward and gently traces the tattoo with his finger. As a response, Enjolras sighs and closes his eyes but doesn’t pull away. When Grantaire looks into his face that holds the relaxed expression of someone who just woke up, complete with closed eyes and eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks, he can’t help himself. He leans in and kisses him.

It’s really more of a peck, a gentle press of his lips on Enjolras’, but Enjolras makes a surprised sound like a gasp and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss.

They remain like this, softly kissing, for a while. Finally, Enjolras pulls away and sighs, running a hand through Grantaire’s curls with the softest expression in the world on his face.

“I wish I was up for more at the moment,” he says, “but let me take you to dinner tomorrow and then after I’ll make it up to you in my bed.”

Grantaire, a mess of feelings and thoughts, barely manages a nod.

Enjolras keeps his promise. Two months later, Grantaire gets a red flag tattooed over his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> oops I did it again.  
> Comments are much appreciated. I need them like Grantaire needs Enjolras.


End file.
